Bait and Switch
by StarSword-C
Summary: Novelization of an STO Foundry mission series of same title by this author. It is a law of the universe that routine patrols are never routine. Follow Captain Kanril Eleya of the USS Bajor as she puts her friends and her ship on the line to save thousands.
1. Nebula Surveys are Boring: Film at 11

Bait and Switch

by StarSword

**Chapter 1: Nebula Surveys are Boring. Film at Eleven.**

Sirens. Smoke. Fire. The stench of burnt plastic and insulation. The signs of a stricken ship of war.

Crewman Davos pokes his head over the barricade and cracks off a burst of fire from his phaser rifle at the boarders. "Bloody pirates," he growls as return fire forces him back down. "Sarge, what the hell does the Orion Syndicate want with an obsolete junk frigate like this anyway?"

I shake my head. "If I had to guess—Hah!" My pistol shot strikes the pirate squarely in the midsection and flings him hard against a wall. "Mmf. Probably our security codes."

The ship rocks, probably a torpedo strike several compartments away. I shove Davos sideways and a ceiling tile crashes to the floor near where his head would have been. "Thanks, Sarge."

"Don't mention it." I check the charge on my pistol. "Damn. Nearly empty, and I count—" I check my tricorder "—four more of them." Davos yanks a rifle from one of our fallen and passes it to me. "Smart. Give me a little covering fire." He sends another spread of bolts down the corridor. I pop the maintenance panel on my phaser and connect two wires that are never meant to touch; now an escalating high-pitched whine. I throw the overloaded phaser down the corridor and yell, "Frag out!"

Davos and I duck behind our cover and a deafening thunderclap and blaze of heat washes over the barricade. Everything's muffled and my ears are ringing. I can barely make out the intercom crackling to life. "Security team to sickbay! Security team to sickbay!"

_"Sher hahr kosst!"_ I swear under my breath in Glyrhondi dialect. "Davos, we're one deck and two compartments away, let's move!" A quick check of my tricorder to see if any of the greenskins survived the phaser's detonation, then Davos and I bolt down the corridor behind us. I can still barely hear anything, but I smack my combadge and said, "Sickbay, Gunnery Two responding!"

Power's out to the turbolift. Battle damage, probably. I palm the Jeffries tube access to the left of it and Davos and I slide into the smoky darkness lit only by emergency lights. We emerge one deck down beside what is probably the one working blast door on the whole ship at this point. The corridor is still full of smoke and I can see a blazing fire in the conference room across the corridor. Fire suppression's system's not working, apparently. Davos and I move by fire and movement towards sickbay. An Orion pokes his head out of a room three doors down, past the next, nonworking, blast door, and I reflexively fire and blow half his face off. Davos moves ahead to the sickbay door then grunts and falls backwards, a knife with an ornate brass hilt sticking out from under his left collarbone. He tries to talk but only bubbles of blood come out of his mouth. A female greenskin who's as far as I can tell barely wearing anything steps calmly out of the room and reaches out to him with a second knife.

I pull the trigger on my phaser rifle, aiming for her ear. The bright orange beam lances out at her and hisses into nonexistence against a personal deflector shield. I have a split second to wonder how they got their hands on that level of experimental technology before she spins and throws her second knife. I jerk sideways and it goes flying past. There's a muffled thrum from somewhere above me as the spinal phaser cannon finally fires, then she's upon me, having pulled two more knives from I'm-not-sure-I-want-to-know-where.

I swing the butt of my rifle up into the matron's chin, feeling the static tingle as it passes through her energy barrier. She parries with a forearm, swings across my face with the other and dances backwards. Only then does the pain from the knife's twin parallel blades hit me. I grit my teeth and try to bring the rifle to bear but she reaches in and slashes the front of the sling, then kicks it out of my hands.

I drop into a fighting stance. _Get hold of the knife hands. Keep them controlled and use your legs._ She moves in. I send a jab at her midsection. She slaps it wide but it was a distraction as I aim a right kick at her knee. She traps the leg and punches her knife wielding left hand into my wounded cheek. I manage to snag that wrist and hang on for dear life. I see the ghost of something—fear? Surprise?—flash across her face, then she grunts as I knee her in the stomach. I grab at the metal bra that passes for a uniform with this greenskin and headbutt her in the nose and _PAIN OH PROPHETS THE PAIN_

I collapse backward, her other knife protruding from above my right hip. She shakes her head to clear it, wipes green blood from her broken nose and glares at me, then advances and kicks me in the jaw, sending me sprawling against a bulkhead. "Bajoran _bitch!"_ she grinds out. "If that leaves a mark I'll have killed you too quickly." I can only stare up at her as she kneels down and brings her knife to my throat.

A bolt from a blast assault phaser crashes into her shield and it collapses. She just has time to get out a "What?" before her torso explodes from another shot and covers me in gore. I blink it out of my eyes to see an MP squad standing in the corridor with the SSW.

My ears are ringing again. One of them kneels next to me with a tricorder. "She's still alive!" he hollers over his shoulder. "Get the medic!" He looks at me and says something but I can't make it out anymore and my eyes close.

_Not here for much longer, thank the Prophets,_ I thought as my mind faded. _I wonder if this is how the Emissary went..._

* * *

I sit bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, then collapse forward onto the sheets. My hands go to the right side of my stomach, feeling the roiled, knotty scar left from the Orion matron's knife. It's as healed as it was the last ten times I had The Nightmare, and the twenty before that.

I shove the tangle of sheets off my nude body and stalk to my quarters' bathroom. Cold water to the face, and I look at myself in the mirror. As always, my dark green eyes are drawn first to the two angry pink lines across my left cheek. Then to the four parallel ridges on the bridge of my nose and the sweaty mess The Nightmare made of my hair. "I need a _phekk'ta_ shower," I mutter under my breath, and step into the stall and turn on the hot water.

My name is Eleya. Kanril Eleya. I'm Bajoran born, Federation bred, and I'm a Starfleet captain. It's been 34 years since the Dominion War ended and my people had to live each day wondering if today was the day fire would rain down from Cardassian or Jem'Hadar battleships and our beautiful green world would burn. It's been 25 years since we were admitted to the Federation, and less than a decade since we sold the last of our ancient patrol frigates for scrap and began relying exclusively on Starfleet for our naval defense.

29 years since I was born.

I'm originally from Priyat, a small town in Kendra Province. Mother and Father were town maintenance but I never wanted to spend my life patching plasma coils or running wire. Soon as I hit the legal age I enlisted in the Bajoran Militia, got assigned blackside as a gunnery specialist. Did pretty well, made it to sergeant a couple years later.

Then the Orions hit the _Kira Nerys_, the frigate I was assigned to. I learned later they'd played dead in a comet's tail waiting for some schmuck—learned that word from an Academy classmate—to happen by. They took out the warp core and half of main Engineering with their first salvo and beamed aboard. It was my first time actually seeing the enemy instead of calibrating the spinal phaser cannon. So we fought. Training and all the nonregulation tricks I'd learned, like overloading a phaser for a makeshift hand grenade, took over. Bridge finally managed to bring the cannon to bear and blew their ship to scrap but they'd already boarded, and we had to keep the cannon online long enough for Colonel Karryn to use it, so six of us manned a barricade outside Gunnery Two. Davos made it. So did I, in case you hadn't figured it out yet. Touch and go for a while there, though (they had to replicate me a new kidney), and the other four died on the barricade. I've hated Orions since.

I reach for the shampoo and lather my mid-back-length red tresses. Not strictly regulation but Starfleet gives a lot of leeway to officers, and anyway it's not like there's much on a cruiser bridge for my hair to get caught in. Never would've gotten away with it as a noncom.

Toweled off, I slide on my plain white underwear, uniform trousers, undershirt, and red and white uniform jacket. I wrap my hair into its usual neat ponytail and punch the intercom for the bridge. "Tess, it's Eleya. I'll be joining you a bit earlier than usual."

A cool alto voice says, "Yes, ma'am."

I call up a few jumja sticks from the replicator and munch on them as I walk to the turbolift. One thing I'll say about life in Starfleet: the food's never quite right, though I'll grant it's usually close enough for government work as Father used to say. I heard an interesting take on it when I went to Starfleet Academy after the Militia shut down its space forces: cooked never tastes exactly the same—varying levels of ingredients and cooking time and such—but replicated does, so replicated always tastes a little bit artificial.

I palm the control for the turbolift and say "Bridge" around a mouthful of slightly artificial jumja stick. About ten seconds later the door slides open and I stride out onto the bridge, lit by a sickly yellow protostar hanging in space off the port bow several million kilometers away, superimposed on a starfield tinged blue by the gas clouds of the Delta Volanis Cluster. My first officer, an Andorian named Tesjha Phohl, sees me, stands and snaps to attention. "Captain on deck!"

"Carry on."

Tess walks over to me. We met in battle, during the abortive Borg assault at Vega when I suddenly found myself the acting captain of the _ShiKahr_-class light cruiser _Kagoshima_. The USS _Khitomer_ sent her over to act as my temporary tac officer until the fleet got clear, and Admiral Quinn made both her reassignment and my command permanent. Tess is a bit shorter than me, with short white hair and lots of curves. "Good morning, Skipper."

"Morning, Tess. Jumja stick?"

"I ate already, thank you, ma'am."

"Anything happening?"

"No, ma'am. So far this patrol's been pretty quiet. We've scanned a possible star fragment about two light-months coreward—reported that one to Starfleet Command since it's headed for the colony on Ardiles in a couple dozen years—and several large asteroids that might have tritanium. Nothing of particular strategic importance, though." She checks the PADD in her hand. "We'll be moving on to our next waypoint in about half an hour. Oh, and Lieutenant Korekh wanted to speak to you."

"All right, I'll see him in the ready room."

"Ma'am." I step inside as she hits the intercom. "Security Officer to the captain's ready room. Lieutenant Korekh, please report to the ready room."

As I wait, I look around my room, no different from when I last saw it. On the wall facing my desk hang various medals and decorations, including the Silver Cross I received for defending sickbay on the _Kira_. To the right, a trophy wall with statuettes of my previous commands. The _Kagoshima_. The _Excalibur_-class _John Paul Jones_. The _Stargazer_-class _George Hammond_. Turn to the right and the bronze dedication plaque for my current ship hangs.

U.S.S. _Bajor_

_Galaxy_-class Exploration Cruiser, Production Series 23

Starfleet Registry NCC-97238

40 Eridani A Starfleet Construction Yards

Launched 9 August 2409 Earth Standard

United Federation of Planets

A _Galaxy_-class starship. My ship. 82 officers and 963 enlisted, from a vast rainbow of species and all walks of life. It was once rare for a _Galaxy_-class to be commanded by one as young as me but the wars with the Klingons and the Borg have a way of eliminating the complacent or unlucky and clearing the way for new blood. Hell, that's the reason I got my first command, after the Borg killed or assimilated the entire command staff of the _Kagoshima_, which left me, the second shift weapons officer and the senior-most ensign afloat, the ship's acting captain.

The door chime shakes me out of my reverie. "Enter."

Dul'krah, Clan Korekh strides in. My security officer's a member of a minor species from the Arucanis Arm, the Pe'khdar, and built like a Cardassian main battle tank, bigger and stronger than most Klingons I've met, with scaly skin, broad flat horns sweeping back from his forehead, six nostrils, and a single topknot of black hair. Like me he didn't start in Starfleet: he was a member of the Pe'khdar military police agency before they were admitted to the Federation, and they let him keep wearing the black and green uniform afterward. "Captain," he says in a deep, rumbling voice, "my team has completed their latest sweep for contraband aboard ship. We confiscated a case of, hrmm, how do you pronounce this word?"

I take the PADD from him. "'Laphroaig,' I think."

"What is it?"

"Liquor from Earth, I believe from an island between Britain and Ireland. At least Crewman Targ has good taste in contraband."

"You have tried this ... La-frog, Captain?"

"Third semester at Starfleet Academy. I remember it was tasty and not much else. One minute I'm out drinking with friends, next thing I know I wake up in my bedroom with a brass band in my head. First I thought Scotch did bad things to Bajorans but then I find out from Anna that humans have the same problem."

I hear the snuffling noise that passes for laughter with Korekh. "I saw this many times in the Ver Eshalakh, Captain." He stops laughing. "In any case this is Targ's third violation for contraband and I no longer believe it is for her own use as she protests. We have confined her to quarters for now and I have laid out punitive measures for your approval."

I glance at the "recommended course of action" line. One week in the brig, one month's pay. Nothing out of the ordinary. I press my thumbprint into the approval box. "Thank you, Captain." He raises his arm across his chest and bows his head in a Pe'khdar salute and strides out of the room.

_Business as usual,_ I think to myself. I walk back onto the bridge and take my chair.

From my right, my science officer, Commander Birail Riyannis. "Skipper, we just picked up a coronal mass ejection from the star."

"Any danger to the ship? Anything unusual about it?"

"Not if we move two million kilometers relative vertical sometime in the next ten minutes, and no, it's just your average several-million-degree blast of charged particles."

"If an ordinary solar storm is what passes for excitement today I'm going to start wondering why I bothered to get up," I mutter under my breath. "Conn, take us two million kilometers relative up."

"Conn, aye," the human JG manning the conn says. "Pitching ship and accelerating to three-quarters impulse power." The sun slides downward out of view as the _Bajor_ rolls backward and begins to accelerate.

Biri walks over. "That'll cause some interesting auroras on the third planet of the system in about 33 hours," Biri says conversationally, leaning on the back of my chair.

I look up at her brown, spot-wreathed Trill face. "Too bad we won't be here. We've got to go to Xi Cassiopeiae 12 today."

"Ooh, I hear it's nice there this time of year." I roll my eyes and she titters a bit, then sobers. "Actually, there's supposed to be some gravimetric flux anomalies that Admiral Lovett wants looked at closer; he thinks they might be signs of Q activity." Off my look, "I know, I know, it's probably just another glitch on Outpost Zeta-Five's end, but you never know. I do know there's an industrial civilization on the second planet that's expected to launch its first manned orbiter in about four months. Mem Alpha wants a scan of the launch site."

"Skipper, we will be in position in thirty seconds," the conn officer calls back.

"Thank you, JG Park."

The next thirty minutes pass with nothing eventful. Tess and I finish our morning paperwork and start a round of chess on our PADDs. I'm down two pawns when my terminal chimes the reminder for us to move on. I lay the PADD aside and tell Park to set course for Xi Cassiopeiae 12 II, warp seven. "Course laid in, ma'am." It pops up on the viewscreen. "We'll need to avoid a black hole at 1710 hours but other than that it'll be a smooth ride."

"Understood." I hit the intercom. "All hands, this is the captain. Prepare for warp, T-minus two minutes." I pick my PADD up, move a bishop to H4, and wait for Tess, but she doesn't make her move before the two minutes are up. "Conn, warp seven. Engage."

"Warp seven, aye." Park smoothly noses the _Bajor_ over, then taps his console and slides the power "lever" forward. The stars smear into rapidly bluing streaks and the ship punches through the light barrier with effortless ease.

"If anyone needs me, I'll be in the—"

"Captain," the on-duty communications officer interrupts. "We just picked up a message from Starfleet Command. Text-only, flagged 'Captain's Eyes First'. I'll shoot it over to your PADD."

_So much for my holonovel,_ I think to myself. I swipe the chess game off the screen and tap the message open.

[begin transmission]

TO: Captain Kanril Eleya, C.O. U.S.S. _Bajor_ NCC-97238

FROM: Office of Admiral Nadifa La Forge, Starfleet Command, Earth Spacedock

SUBJECT: Assignment Order #15512388515613611643366211

Captain Kanril:

You are hereby ordered to travel to Deep Space 9, Bajor Sector, and report to Admiral Anthony Marconi, C.O. Beta Ursae Fleet Area, for assignment to civil defense patrol. You are expected to arrive at or before Stardate 91306.02.

[end transmission]

I pass the message to Tess and say, "Well, Biri, looks like Q will have to wait. We've just been reassigned. Civil defense patrol on the Cardie border."

"They need a _Galaxy_-class ship for that? I would've thought something smaller would do."

I shrug. "Far be it from me to question the infinite wisdom of Starfleet Command. Conn, amend previous course. Fastest route to Deep Space 9, maximum cruise."

"Conn, aye. We're five hours from the edge of the star cluster, then it's three days to DS9. Dropping us out of warp to change course now." JG Park taps out a rapid sequence of commands into his console, and the streaming stars out the viewport redshift as the _Bajor_ dumps velocity and drops back to sublight speeds. Still traveling a good .8_c_ the ship heels hard to starboard and swings around. "Accelerating back to warp now, Captain." The stars blueshift again and we streak past lightspeed. "Warp five," Park counts. "Warp six… Warp seven… Warp eight… We are at warp 9.4. ETA to Deep Space 9, 74 hours and 45 minutes."

_Looks like I might get some time on the holodeck after all._


	2. Reporting as Ordered

**Chapter 2: Reporting as Ordered  
**

"Fire missiles! Dump everything!" Thirty-two nuclear-tipped Krait missiles erupt from my flight of four fighters, against an enormous Turusch warship constructed from a 900-kilometer dwarf planet. "Now hard one-eighty, and _zorch_ it!"

A beam from the leviathan barely brushes my wingman, knocking him out of position in his tight turn around his fighter's drive singularity. "I'm hit! I'm hit!" His ship breaks up under the stress and his icon vanishes from my sensor boards. Then the rest of us are through the turn and hauling fifty thousand gravities away from the leviathan. The timer on my screen counts down to impact and—

"Bridge to Captain Kanril."

"Frak_._ Computer, pause program." The behemoth and the array of detonations freeze in place on my screen. "Kanril."

"We're two minutes out from Deep Space 9."

"Frak. All right, I'll be there shortly. Computer, save and end program." The SG-92 cockpit fades out of existence, which leads to me landing hard on my ass when my seat vanishes. "OW! FRAK!"

I pick myself up and walk to the arch, and the door slides open. I walk to the turbolift across the corridor and say, "Bridge."

A few seconds later, the door slides open. The viewscreen is still showing the streaming stars of warp. I know intellectually it's just particles of the interstellar medium interacting with the warp field but that doesn't make it not pretty. Tess moves in alongside me as I walk to my chair. "Skipper, the sign-up sheets for shore leave are in."

"How big of a bill can we expect from DS9 security?"

Tess snorts. "Naturally, most of the ship's enlisted and about half the officers want to go ashore. 758 crew in all. Usual procedures are in place: Anyone scheduled to be on duty has to be back on the ship and sober half an hour ahead." She pauses, and then we're talking as friends instead of captain and first officer. "Have you ever been to DS9 before, Eleya?"

I nod. "I was stationed there for six months about a year before we met. They called me the assistant liaison to the Bajoran Militia but mostly I was a glorified clerk."

"Right, and of course you were born on Bajor."

"A planet's a big place. I never got up to DS9 until after I enlisted in the Militia."

Tess cocks her head and nods. "Point. Changing the subject, what's this holonovel you've been playing?"

"Oh. It's based on this 21st century Earth book series called _Star Carrier_. I'm playing a fighter pilot."

"So, it's historical, then?"

"No, science fiction. It's—"

"Skipper," the conn officer interrupts, "we're beginning deceleration. Now at warp 8 and dropping. ETA thirty seconds."

"Tell me about it later, El," Tess says, and then she's the consummate professional again.

The streaming stars redshift and the _Bajor_ drops back to sublight speed. We're 400 kilometers out, and Deep Space 9 is an almost invisible speck hanging silently on a starfield marred only by the faint purple Denorios belt. "Communications, contact flight control."

The Vulcan at Communications this shift nods. "Deep Space 9 traffic control, this is USS _Bajor_ NCC-97238, requesting docking clearance, over."

A staticky voice on the other end responds. "USS _Bajor_, you are cleared for initial approach. Transmitting vector and speed."

"Transmission received, Deep Space 9. Relaying to conn." JG Park takes over at the conn, firing up the impulse engines to one-half and the ship smoothly accelerates towards the station.

After a moment the traffic controller radios again. "USS _Bajor_, hold at ten klicks. All berths your size are currently occupied but we have a departure in five minutes."

"Roger, Deep Space 9."

The familiar brown three-spoked ring of DS9 grows larger on the viewscreen. As Park throttles back and applies reverse thrust to bring the ship to a halt I can begin to make out some of the ships present. While technically Federation-controlled, the station has been informally considered neutral territory since before the Dominion War, so I'm not surprised to see a few KDF ships, in this case a pair of the Klingons' ubiquitous _B'rel_-class birds and a _Kamarag_-class battlecruiser on one of the dorsal docking pylons. I also see an Orion _Corsair_-class on a ventral pylon, and bite back the slur that leaps to my lips. From our side there's two _Nebula_-class science ships on the other two ventral pylons, a _Freedom_-class scout and the USS _Defiant_ on the ring, and—

"Wow," Biri blurts out from behind me. "Is that an _Odyssey_-class on dorsal two?"

Master Chief Pete Wiggin, the on-duty sensor officer, checks. "Yes, ma'am, USS _Valentine_, sister ship to the _Odyssey_-A and the _Enterprise_-F." The bright white of the giant cruiser's smoothly curved hull glints under from the station's floodlights.

The last big ship on the station is far more functional in design, a boxy Type 105 superfreighter, and it's this ship that is blocking our way. From here I can see the nacelles glowing as the ship's engines warm up. Then the umbilicals detach and the docking tube retracts. Its starboard thrusters briefly fire to shove it away from the pylon, then the aft thrusters fire more strongly to push it clear of the station. The impulse engines kick in and it accelerates away. The traffic controller clears us to approach, comms confirms, and the _Bajor_ maneuvers closer.

"Beginning final approach, Skipper," JG Park says, programming the autopilot. You don't want any mistakes when docking a 4.5 megaton cruiser, especially in tight quarters already occupied by two ships of similar size and mass. Luckily computers are good at this kind of thing. The ship yaws to port to line up with the pylon and accelerates again, then cuts power, drifting forward on inertia. The station passes underneath the viewscreen's camera angle, but having seen this from the other side I can picture it. The ship is maneuvering to place the big crew airlock on the port side four decks above Main Engineering, behind the top of the deflector dish, against the docking tube. The forward thrusters fire and smoothly stop the ship's forward motion, then the side thrusters fire, first the port side to push us against the station, then starboard to stop us. Park reports, "Docking clamps extending. Docking clamps secure." Now the umbilicals extend, connecting us to station power and fuel stores so we can take on antimatter, deuterium, and replicator mass. Finally, the docking tube mates with the airlock. "Docking procedure completed."

I press the intercom key on the arm of my chair. "All hands, this is the captain speaking. We are now docked at Deep Space 9. Any crew signed up for shore leave may now begin proceeding to Airlock 24-Sierra-Foxtrot to disembark. As usual if you are scheduled for duty you must be aboard and sober 30 minutes before your shift. Kanril out." I let go of the button and stand, straightening the hem of my jacket. "Tess, you have the bridge. I've got an admiral to meet."

"I have the bridge. I'll call his office and let him know you're coming."

I nod and walk to the turbolift. "Deck 13 tram station." The turbolift car drops a dozen decks in a second, then I catch a tram with thirty-odd crewmen aft to the stardrive. With disembarkation in full swing the turbolifts to Engineering are packed. There must be fifty people crammed in here, not counting four of Korekh's security people keeping things orderly, and the confusion from everyone scrambling to attention at my arrival doesn't help matters. It takes five minutes to get a turbolift, then I get to the airlock and it's an even bigger madhouse with crew from all over the ship lined up. I decide "screw this," pull rank, and cut the line. Rank hath its privileges, as they say. Don't know who says "hath," though.

Dockside, a Starfleet security CPO sees me and salutes; I return it. "Welcome aboard Deep Space 9, Captain. Anything I can help you with?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Admiral Marconi's office."

"Suite 204A on the Promenade, sir."

"Thank you, Chief."

I walk towards the turbolift as crewmen begin to file out of the airlock but then my combadge chirps. "Bridge to Captain Kanril." Tess's voice.

I slap the badge. "Eleya here. Go ahead."

"I spoke with Admiral Marconi's adjutant and he's out of his office right now. You should be able to find him on the upper level of the Promenade at around 80 degrees."

"Thanks, Tess. Eleya out."

A turbolift ride and a few minutes' walk later I'm on the Promenade and my senses are assaulted by the cacophany of a thousand or more voices, smells of food from a hundred planets, and colors of people from all over the quadrant. It's nothing like the relative quiet of a Federation starship and I'm quite thoroughly disoriented for a moment. I shake it off and get my bearings. I'm at 120 degrees from station "north" which puts Marconi one deck up and about fifty meters counterclockwise. I walk to yet another turbolift across the way and emerge on the upper floor and keep walking.

Admiral Marconi is wearing a long yellow and gold jacket. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, tall, stocky, with a bit of a paunch and three long-healed claw marks on the right side of his jaw. He's reading a report on hardcopy as I walk up and sipping from a chrome hip flask in his other hand. I snap to attention and salute but he doesn't seem to notice I'm there. After a moment he swears, crumples the report and angrily throws it over the railing where it bounces off the helmeted head of a Breen crewman standing at a kiosk across the way. "Damn them," he says again, and then finally notices me. "And you are?" He takes in my uniform, rank insignia, and combadge and puts it together. "Right, Captain Kanril Eleya."

"Reporting as ordered, sir."

"At ease. Welcome to Beta Ursae Fleet Area. You're probably wonder what that was about," and he flicks a thumb at the report. He stops, looks like he's gathering his thoughts, then speaks again. "Let me get you up to speed. How much do you know about the state of things in the region?"

I raise an eyebrow, then point at the ridges on the bridge of my nose. "Sir, I grew up in Kendra Province, I served in the Militia for four years, and I was stationed here for six months as assistant liaison officer to the Militia. I'd say I've got a passing familiarity with the place, sir. As far as current events, I keep myself apprised of the basics."

He presses a hand to his eyes. "Right, _now_ your file's coming back to me. Sorry, I've been up for nearly 18 hours." He lets the hand fall to his side and leans against the railing, looking out the viewport where the _Defiant_ is visible. I follow his look, and from this angle I can see a gaping wound in the starboard bow, and I recognize the blast signature as being from a Cardie phaser, probably a _Galor_-class destroyer. I can also see tiny specks of light from welding torches.

Marconi speaks again. "Things are pretty rough for us right now. The True Way bombed a temple on New Bajor two days ago. They're still pulling bodies out of the rubble but the death toll's already topped a hundred. I've got a rogue Cardie legate running around playing warlord—you can see the mess she made of the _Defiant_ when we caught up to her at Draylon last week—and we've got multiple reports of Jem'Hadar raiding shipping in the Malon System. And of course the Klingons are … being Klingons." He takes a swig from the hip flask and offers it to me; I wave it away. He shrugs and continues. "Really makes me wish the Militia still had ships; we wouldn't be stretched so thin. As it is my people have been running double and even triple shifts for weeks trying to keep up with it all."

He straightens, caps the flask and pockets it, and turns back to me. "Well, can't change the past. And since Starfleet Command has seen fit to scrounge me up some more ships maybe we can get a handle on it all. I'm giving you the _Defiant's_ patrol route until she's back in action. The _Kagoshima_ and _John Paul Jones_ should be here later in the week and—what are you looking at me like that for?"

"Nothing, sir. Just, that's really weird: those were my first two commands."

His head rocks forward. "That _is_ strange. And my memory must be going because that would've been in your file. Probably just coincidence, or maybe they think you'll be able to coordinate better with people you know."

"I doubt that, sir. The _Kagoshima's_ gone through two captains since I was reassigned and _JPJ's_ Commander Col'holth and I don't get along."

"Mmf. Well, maybe they're just playing some kind of weird joke on you. Anyway, they'll be here later this week, and we'll work out a new route for the _Bajor_ once the _Defiant's_ repaired. Tomorrow you're heading to the Malon System, and maybe you'll get lucky and can do something about those Jems I mentioned. I'll have the formal orders sent over later. Take some shore leave, but I want you underway by oh-nine-hundred. Dismissed." I salute, and he returns it and goes back to leaning against the railing.

I walk around to the turbolift and slap my combadge. "Kanril to _Bajor_, come in please."

"Read you, Captain," Biri says.

"We've got our orders. Nothing fancy, show the flag and look scary to pirates. Departure time is oh-nine-hundred tomorrow morning."

"Got it; I'll let Tess know. She had to go handle something in Gunnery One. _Bajor_ out."

I step into the turbolift and go back down to the first level to get something to eat. Maybe that Hathoni restaurant that makes those delicious jumja sticks with kava fruit sauce is still open.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The holonovel Eleya is running at the start of the chapter is based on an actual book series, _Star Carrier_ by Ian Douglas, consisting of _Earth Strike_, _Center of Gravity_, _Singularity_, and _Deep Space_. Very good piece of military hard sci-fi. I used it for the holonovel because A) I enjoy the series in its own right and feel it deserves attention, and B) I found the irony of something being considered sci-fi by _Star Trek_ too delicious to pass up.

Douglas, Ian. _Star Carrier, Book One: Earth Strike_. New York: HarperCollins, 2010. Print.


	3. Arrivals and Departures

**Chapter 3: Arrivals and Departures**

Half an hour later I go back to the _Bajor_ carrying a big takeout box of jumja sticks. Cooked, not replicated, and even tastier than I remembered. I drop them off in my quarters then go to the cargo transporter room to oversee the reloading of our quantum torpedo supplies. Not much to do, just sign off on the last requisition forms and watch to make sure the transfer goes smoothly. Then I go to the bridge, where Tess is waiting for me. "How are things in Gunnery One?" I ask.

"Oh, that. They had a power supply glitch in the number two phaser bank but we got it fixed. Also, Commander T'Var is ready to disembark."

Lieutenant, now Lieutenant Commander T'Var _was_ my ops officer, but she's been promoted and given her first command, the USS _Olokun_ in the Eighth Fleet, and our trip to DS9 was an opportunity to do the transfer. She's your typical Vulcan: stoic, by-the-book, and as sharp as they come, and I need to get back down to the airlock to meet her. Before I go, though, I ask Tess when her replacement's coming in. "Lieutenant Commander Reshek is supposed to report in tomorrow morning," she replies.

"Not leaving much room for error, is he?" Tess doesn't say anything either way so I give her the bridge again and head down to the airlock. It's much less of a madhouse now that most of the crew are DS9's problem and I see T'Var's short-cropped brunette head in line behind a warrant officer from astrometrics. She spots me, drops her duffel and salutes. "As you were, T'Var. I came to see you off."

"I appreciate that, Captain. I hope my transfer will not complicate your upcoming mission."

"Civvie guard duty? It'll be good to have an easy run to break in my new ops officer on. I'm more worried about you: you really sure you're ready for your first command?"

"I have served under you for two years, Captain Kanril, and I have observed how you handle yourself and your ship. An _Ushaan_-class is not an exploration cruiser, true, but the basic principles of command are much the same regardless of vessel."

I smile. "You'll do fine. Knock 'em dead, and don't forget to write."

"I will not." She raises her right hand and parts her middle and ring fingers. "Live long, and prosper, Captain Kanril."

I try to follow suit but no matter how many times I've tried I can never get my fingers to do that so I resort to a handshake. "Live long and prosper, T'Var." The security ensign waves her through the airlock and she picks up her duffel again and steps off the ship.

The rest of my shift is mostly paperwork and admin stuff, signing off on yet more requisitions, giving Crewman Targ a talking-to in the brig ("you're on your last chance", "you keep it up and you'll be cashiered and it won't look good on a resume," that kind of thing), checking in Main Engineering to make sure the experimental dilithium-free warp core is still operating at specifications. The _Bajor's_ a testbed for a core redesigned to provide the same amount of power but be safer to operate. Instead of running with lots of fuel in the chamber and relying on dilithium crystals to moderate it, it instead uses minimal fuel levels, which is supposed to be more efficient and easier to shut down: just cut off the fuel and let it burn itself out. I know for certain we can go further on less fuel, always a good thing with the wars straining the Federation's resources, but thankfully we haven't had to test its resistance to a core breach yet.

At 1830 I finally hand off the bridge to the officer of the watch, a Benzite ops lieutenant named Mugo, and go to my quarters to change into street clothes. Dark blue skirt, white blouse, black Klingon leather jacket that cost me a month's pay when I was a lieutenant. I add lip gloss and eyeliner and head for Quark's for dinner and a drink.

The place is packed with people of varying levels of sobriety but it's basically the same as it was the last time I was here. The dance floor is crowded and the music suitably pounding. I hear holo-Leeta's voice over at the dabo table as I muscle my way up to the bar. This evening it's apparently Woadroh on duty. He's humanoid, but looks like he's made of wood, and from some minor species I've never bothered to look up. He's facing away so I tug his sleeve. "Hathon hammer," I say to him.

"Eleya!" he says, face cracking into a huge smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Just a stopover between assignments. Anything interesting going on?"

"'Fraid not. Station theater's between seasons and Holosuite One is down for repairs and the others are booked solid." He pulls a drink shaker out from under the bar and pours a measure of Klingon bloodwine into it, then adds two shots of kava juice and one of Cardassian kanar. He shakes it hard and pours it into a martini glass. "One Hathon hammer. Can I get you something to eat? The gladst is hot."

"Yum."

I pick up the martini glass and sip it slowly. The recipe, made by some insane bartender on the homeworld, is damned good but like its name says it hits like a hammer. Then somebody taps my shoulder and a rough tenor voice asks, "Is this seat spoken for?"

I turn my head to see probably the burliest Bajoran I've ever met. In fact he's big enough I guess he might be from New Bajor; the colony's got about a third-again the gravity of the homeworld. Spiky blond hair, blue eyes, a rugged square jawline with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Very handsome. "Not by anyone I know," I reply to his question, and he takes a seat.

"Uh, bartender, I'll have what she's having."

"Want me to start a tab?"

_What the hell._ "Put it on mine," I say.

The Bajoran grins. "Thanks, miss."

"Call me Eleya," I say, proffering a hand.

He shakes the hand. Firm but gentle. "Gaarra."

"Where you from, New Bajor?"

"Yeah, Chamba City. How'd you know, heavyworlder looks?"

I nod. "Heard about a bombing there two days ago."

His face darkens. "I lost a cousin."

I touch his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I just keep thinking, maybe if I was there and not here—"

"Take it from me, there's nothing down that road. In my case I _was_ there and it didn't change a whole lot."

"You lost a cousin in a True Way bombing?"

"No, thirty shipmates to an Orion boarding party, including almost my entire gun crew."

"Close enough." Woadie finishes his cocktail and one of the serving girls brings out a steaming plate of gladst for me. "What in the name of the Emissary is that?"

"Gladst. Klingon mushroom dish."

"Klingon food? Is it any good?"

I shrug. "I like it," I say, taking a spoonful. Not sure why I've got a taste for Klingon food; most of my countrymen hate it. Still, they do cook some things I won't touch. Like gagh. Live worms. Gross, _and_ it turns into intestinal parasites if you don't chew it properly. 'Course, some humans eat deadly poisonous fish. Takes all kinds, I suppose.

"I'll pass," Gaarra says. "Bartender, can I get a bowl of zabu stew, please?" Woadie nods and passes the order to a server.

"You pass on Klingon and then order Cardassian?"

"War was forty years ago, Eleya, before either of us were even thought of if I've got your age right."

"It's not that. Okay, it is that, just a little, but it's more that it stinks up your breath."

He gives a slightly cocky grin. "And you care about my breath, why, exactly?"

"Well, if we're going to be dancing in a few minutes it'd be nice not to smell the fayzo on it."

"Might take you up on that." He raises his glass. "To... Oh, the hell with it, to getting drunk with a new friend."

"Ha! I'll drink to that." We clink glasses and drink. The music changes to this strange electronic, rock-ish thumping. "Woadie, what's that?"

"Oh, that's from the middle of the last century, almost. Alba ra, Talarian music."

"Talarian? I've never heard of 'em. Gaarra?"

He shakes his head. "It's good, whatever it is. You want to—?"

"Dance? I'd love to."

Gaarra takes my hand and leads me out onto the floor. Normally I feel a bit awkward on a dance floor because I tend to tower over my partner. At 185 centimeters I'm fairly tall for a Bajoran. For once though, my partner's even a couple centimeters taller. He's also a much better dancer than I am so I let him take the lead through this song, and the next. And the one after that. The music shifts to a slow Paradan woodwinds number and he holds me close and we mostly just turn in place. I kiss his cheek experimentally and whisper, "You want to get out of here?"

"I'd love to but I have to be at my ship early tomorrow."

"Same here, so we won't make an all-nighter of it."

"Sounds like fun."

* * *

I stroll onto the bridge the next morning at 0830 feeling extremely refreshed despite the early hour and plop down languidly in my chair. Tess gives me a funny look and rolls her eyes. "What?"

"What do you mean, 'what,' Eleya?" she says, walking over and sitting in the chair next to me. "You walk in here looking like a grayth that just dined on prize alicorn and expect nobody to notice? So, how was he?"

"Mmmm. He was damn good."

"Details."

"Not now, Tess, there are ensigns present."

She laughs. "Later then, but I want details." Then she's in Number One mode again. "The new ops officer arrived a few hours after you got back last night. He's in your ready room."

"All right." I stand and she follows. The door slides open and—"Oh, _hell_."

Standing at attention—not figuratively, thank the Prophets; that would've been just _perfect_—is Gaarra, the guy I went to bed with last night. I turn red, and I can see a muscle twitching in his jaw but he manages a completely professional salute despite it. "Sir. Lieutenant Commander Reshek Gaarra reporting for duty. Sir."

"I prefer 'ma'am.' At ease, Commander." He clasps his hands behind him. I walk to my desk hoping Tess didn't notice, but of course she did and I can see the obvious question on her face. I sit down and pull up Gaarra's—_Commander Reshek's_ file, something that if I'd bothered to take more than a cursory glance at when I first received it I wouldn't be in this position. "U of Alpha Centauri ROTC, then you were on the USS _Spruance_ for seven years. Captain Parsa credits you with saving the ship from a core breach after Chief Engineer Diabate was killed by shrapnel." I look up from the screen. "I don't get it, it says here you were assigned to the nav deflector."

"As you pointed out, ma'am, Commander Diabate got decapitated, and a lot of the other engineers were killed, too, and the nav deflector isn't exactly a necessity when there's a _D'deridex_ trying to blast you into next week so Lieutenant Parrish sent me aft. I knew enough to operate a welding torch and reseal the coolant line and I suppose they considered that worth a medal."

"I see. Well, Parsa's good people, and her recommendation's good enough for me. I'll let you get settled in and meet your staff. We're getting underway at 0900."

"0900, yes, ma'am." He salutes again, I return it, and he executes a proper military turn and strides out of the room.

I rest my face in my hands as the door hisses shut. "Well?" Tess prompts.

My hands drop to the table. "Yes, all right? I had sex with my ops officer, and no, I didn't know he was my ops officer at the time."

I look up at her and she shakes her head. "Those 'details' I mentioned, El? Forget it."

"Yes, thank you for that, Tess." The doorbell sounds. "Enter."

It's Korekh. "Captain, the last of the stragglers are aboard and…" He trails off, looking between us. "Is there something that I should be aware of?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Dul'krah," Tess saves me. "Skipper just had an interesting time on shore leave."

He stands there for a few seconds looking blank, then shakes his head and continues. "DS9 Security detained two development lab ensigns for drunk and disorderly and one torpedo bay crewman apprentice for underage drinking."

"Killjoys."

"Captain?"

"Joke. Dock a week's pay and put the crewman on KP."

"Already the plan, Captain."

"Any trouble with the Klingon crews on station?"

"I am told there was a near-altercation at the Velvet and Lace strip club between my own JG K'lak and a second lieutenant from the IKS _HoS_. Their man called him a _bolwI'_."

"'Traitor,'" Tess translates. "I'm surprised K'lak didn't kill him."

"As am I, but they were apparently able to settle it with a drinking contest instead."

"Who won?" I ask.

"Either they were too evenly matched or Romulan liquor does strange things to Klingons. Both became unconscious after four shots and were dragged home by their shipmates."

I chuckle. "Anything else?"

"No, Captain."

I check the clock on my console. 0845. Tess, Korekh and I return to the bridge. Tess and I take our seats and I press the intercom key. "This is the captain. All sections, report readiness." I listen to the string of reports from the ship's various sub-departments. As one section finishes, their department head reports all secure. This includes Reshek in Ops.

"All departments secure," Tess says formally.

"All hands, this is the captain. We are ready to depart. Comms?"

"Aye, Skipper," the communications officer says and turns to his console. "DS9 Flight Control, this is USS _Bajor_, requesting clearance to launch."

"Stand by, USS _Bajor_." After a moment, "USS _Bajor_, you are cleared to depart."

"JG Park, you may begin undocking," I say.

"Aye, Skipper. Docking tube disengaged," JG Park reports from the conn. "Umbilicals disengaged. Docking clamps retracted. We are detached. Firing starboard thrusters." The ship slides sideways ten meters. "Firing aft thrusters." The ship begins to slowly accelerate. "We are clear of the station."

"One-half impulse power. Lay in a course for the Malon System, warp 9."

"Course laid in. One-half impulse, aye." The ship accelerates away from the station. "We are at minimum safe distance."

"Engage."

The _Bajor_ moves onto a new heading, then the stars smear into blueshifted lines and the _Bajor_ rockets past the light barrier.


	4. Civil Defense Patrol Is Boring, Too

**Chapter 4: Civil Defense Patrol Is Boring, Too**

We're three days out from DS9 and an hour and a half from Malon VII. I'm in the _Bajor's_ officers' gym running on a treadmill. According to the meter I've been on it for half an hour and I've gone about seven klicks. I like running. The rhythm takes your mind off of things.

I hear the door slide open behind me and I slow down and stop and turn to my left, leaning against the handrail as I reach for my water bottle. Seeing who it is, I freeze. It's Gaar—_Commander Reshek_,_damn it,_ in sweats and a light gray University of Alpha Centauri T-shirt. He sees me staring and stops messing with the settings on the bench-press machine's gravity generator. "Um, I hope you don't mind, Captain. I was hoping to get in a workout before we got to Malon IV." He moves to take off his earring.

"I was just leaving."

"No, you weren't," he says in Kendran dialect, my native tongue. "You were in the middle of a ten-kay run."

"You speak Kendran?"

"Permission to speak candidly, ma'am?" I nod and take a gulp of water. "You're changing the subject. You've been avoiding me since we left port."

"I have?"

He walks over to my treadmill. I move to the opposite rail. "Case in point," he says, waving a hand in my direction. "And it's not just that. Any time I try to make a report, you use Commander Phohl as a buffer, and I notice you do the exact opposite with Korekh, Ehrob, and Riyannis. I get what the problem is, but I have to be able to do my job, at least."

I take a breath and let it out. "I'm sorry. You're right, it's not fair to you."

"Well, look at it this way: You think it's any easier for me? Flip it around. You fucked your ops officer, _I_ fucked _my_ commanding officer. And neither of us knew who the other was until the next day."

"You hadn't read my file, either?"

"It never even turned up in my inbox," he says with shrug and a "what the hell, Starfleet?" look on his face. "I had to look it up on the _Bajor's_ computers after we spoke in your ready room."

I roll my eyes, stifling a laugh. "Typical Starfleet."

"Seriously, though, if it's going to be too difficult to work together I'm sure I can find another ship."

"No, no," I say, shaking my head. "Well, not right away at least; we can at least _try_ to be professional. We finish this patrol and we'll eval how well it went, then decide. Deal?"

"Deal." We shake on it. "Now, can you give me a hand with this thing?" he says, gesturing at the bench. "The grav controls are a little different than I'm used to."

"Trying to set it to New Bajor gravity?"

"Yeah, don't want to lose the edge."

"Hang on." I swallow another mouthful of water, then drape my towel over my neck and walk around to the machine. "These two are the gravity, this is the safety field, and this is for the health monitor which is... over there hanging on the wall, of course." I walk over to the wall, grab one of the cuffs, and toss it to him. "Ship regs; you're supposed to wear one of those. It'll call sickbay on the off chance there's an issue."

He nods and snaps it closed over his wrist. "Do I need a spotter, too, regs-wise?"

I flick a thumb at the security camera. "It's programmed to detect if there's a problem."

"All right." He sets the bench, lies down on his back and takes the bar off the rail. He runs a few quick reps as a warmup, then replaces the bar, ups the weight, and starts pumping the iron with a look of intense concentration on his face. 'Course his face isn't the only thing I'm looking at—_Prophets, get your head out of the gutter, Eleya._

Nope. Despite my best efforts I can feel my nipples hardening against my sports bra so I grab my water bottle and leave the room. Maybe we'd best just try to avoid being in the gym at the same time.

* * *

A cold shower and lunch later, I return to the bridge. "Captain on deck!" an ops petty officer calls.

"Carry on." The viewscreen currently shows our progress towards Malon VII and the start of our patrol route. We crossed the system's heliopause while I was in the turbolift and are now only a minute out. "All hands," I say into the intercom, "prepare to drop out of warp."

The conn officer on duty, a Karemma named Pakniso, confirms and starts deceleration, calling out the numbers. The stars redshift and a green-tinged blue gas giant with a somewhat anemic ring system inflates into view. I double-check our mission profile for the system. We'll be checking on the various mining operations in the Malon System planet by planet for the next twelve hours or so. "Conn, transmitting patrol route to your station. Ahead one-half impulse power."

"Conn, aye," Ens. Pakniso confirms again. "Half impulse."

"Comms, burst message to DS9, Admiral Marconi's office, text only. Begin transmission. 'We have arrived at Malon VII and are starting our patrol route. Continuing to Regulon at 2030 hours.' End transmission."

"Transmission away," the spot-faced Saurian comms ensign, Esplin, I think her name is, responds.

Patrol duty consists of long stretches of abject boredom occasionally punctuated by some desperate threat to life and limb. An entirely uneventful four hours hours later we're at Malon IV, a planet that would be considered Class M were it not for the frankly ridiculous levels of chlorine in its atmosphere. Got a lot of life but nothing remotely sapient, though I'm told the Benzites are looking at putting a colony here.

In the meantime our sensors are picking up a small flotilla of ships of varying size and configuration chipping away at the asteroid field orbiting the planet.

"Skipper," Master Chief Wiggin calls from sensors, "I've got four contacts on scan. Breen warships eight thousand kilometers off the port bow."

"Yellow alert. What are they up to?"

"Nothing, as far as I can tell. We're definitely in their sensor range but they're making no hostile moves at all. Weapons and shields are charged but not armed, repeat, not armed."

"All right, what are we dealing with?

"There's three _Plesh Brek_-class frigates running a circular route around the mining operation, and a _Sarr Theln_-class warship holding station in the center."

"Tess, load torpedo bays and charge up the phaser strips and shields. Be prepared to go to battle stations any second."

"Aye, Skipper." She presses her intercom key. "All hands, this is the XO. We may be entering combat in a matter of minutes, but we'll try to avoid it. All tactical crew, report to your stations immediately."

Relations with the Breen Confederacy have been extremely tense since they fought for the other side in the Dominion War. Granted, they've recently been more interested in antagonizing their old enemies the Deferi than us, but them being this deep in Federation territory could still be an act of war. We approach quietly, passing a Romulan shuttle nibbling away at an asteroid and enter communications range of the _Sarr Theln_. "Open a channel."

"Channel open," Ens. Esplin says.

"Breen commander, this is Captain Kanril Eleya of the Federation starship _Bajor_. Respond, please."

There's tense silence for a moment, then a masked Breen with an blue visor appears on the viewscreen. He speaks in accented but perfectly intelligible Federation Standard English. "USS _Bajor_, I am Thot Chu of the BCV _Dorek_. State your business, please."

"Just a routine patrol. Can I ask a few questions?"

"One moment, please. I am transferring you to my commanding officer." The screen goes staticky for a second, then another Breen, this one with an orange visor, appears. "Captain Kanril, I am Dalsh Kong of the Breen Confederacy Navy."

"What are you doing this deep in Federation space?"

"Commerce protection," he says matter-of-factly. "Ragesh Mining is under contract with the Breen Confederacy and has requested additional security."

"Biri, pull the files on Ragesh Mining." I turn back to the screen. "Do you have clearance to be on our side of the border?"

"Transmitting credentials now."

I check my PADD. The credential Kong sent over is pretty straightforward diplomatic boilerplate stating that 104 Squadron, Breen Confederacy Navy, is authorized to conduct military operations in defense of Ragesh Mining LLC personnel in the Malon System. The document bears the signature of Alžbeta Nedvedová, the Federation ambassador to the Breen, and all the metadata reads as genuine. I shrug and ask Kong if he's heard anything about the Jem'Hadar attacks Marconi told me about. "I can confirm," he replies. "They attacked this operation early this morning, 0147 hours your time, but fled back into warp after exchanging fire with the _Dorek_ and two of my frigates."

"Which way did they go?"

"Their exit vector was 88 by 106."

"Nav?"

The nav officer, Lt. Jennifer Ivanovich, responds, "That would take them sunward but there's no way of knowing how long they stayed at warp."

Biri steps over to me and shows me the file on her PADD. "Nothing out of the ordinary, just an asteroid mining company. They're registered out of Betazed."

"Nope, nothing out of the ordinary." I turn back to the screen. "Thank you for your time, Dalsh Kong. I'll get out of your hair." I make a slashing gesture across my throat to Esplin and she cuts the channel.

Pakniso sets the ship back on its course and goes off shift, and JG Park takes her place. We continue around Malon IV with our vector taking us to a dwarf planet in the mid-system asteroid belt when Esplin's console chimes. Her eyes widen and she turns to me. "Captain! I'm reading a distress signal from a freighter near Malon II!"

"Onscreen!"

The visual part of the transmission is snowy but I can make out the crocodilian face of a very large Gorn. The audio is briefly a cacophany of hisses and growls, then the universal translator kicks in in mid-word. "SSSRrgarg—day! Mayday! This is Captain S'bek of the independent freighter _Shargrash_! We are under attack by Jem'Hadar vessels! Requesting immediate assistance from anyone receiving this signal! Cargo manifest follows!" I recognize the indie freighter practice of transmitting one's cargo manifest as an offer of payment. The transmission continues on a loop and Esplin mutes it.

"Skipper," Tess says, "under any other circumstance I'd be inclined to let Gorn and Jem'Hadar blast each other to bits, and we play winner, but that's a civilian. We can be there in less than a minute.

I nod and hit my intercom key. "All hands, battle stations." Klaxons sound throughout the ship as I release the key and order Esplin to hail the _Shargrash_. "SS _Shargrash_, this is the USS _Bajor_. We have received your signal and are responding. ETA"—I run the math on my PADD—"twenty seconds."

"Thank you, please hurry!" S'bek responds, then vanishes from the screen.

"JG Park?"

"I'm on it." After a moment, "We're clear of the planet!"

"Warp six, engage!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** "Dalsh" is a Breen rank I made up for this fic, since _STO_ only lists their ranks as high as Thot, equivalent to a Starfleet captain. Dalsh translates roughly to "squadron commander," and is the equivalent of a Rear Admiral, Upper Half.


	5. No, It's Not, Either

**Chapter 5: No, It's Not, Either**

Twelve seconds and 1.3 light-hours later we drop back to sublight and race towards Malon II at full impulse. Master Chief Wiggin locates the _Shargrash_ and throws the optical sensor readouts onto the viewscreen. The Gorn freighter has multiple hull breaches and the starboard impulse engine is out, but by skill, luck, or some mixture of both, they're managing to avoid the worst of the pirates' fire, even using their cargo tractor beam to chuck small rocks and various bits of debris into their path (not very effectively, but they're trying). For their part the pirates, a Jem attack ship and three fighters in varying states of repair, are whaling on them with essentially everything they've got.

"Comms," I order, "broadcast in the clear, all channels."

"Ready, ma'am," Esplin says nervously.

"Jem'Hadar vessels, this is Captain Kanril Eleya of the Starfleet vessel USS _Bajor_. You are ordered to release control of your helm. Heave to, and prepare to be boarded."

The Jems don't flinch. One of them, probably the biggest and ugliest I've ever seen, even briefly appears on the screen and tells us to go away in a supremely disinterested tone. I'm even a little insulted. "Tess, fire at will."

"Aye. Shields up, locking weapons. Tac hologram online." A 3D display of the nearest twenty kilometers of the system materializes between the command bench and the viewscreen.

The _Bajor_ drives straight at the Jems and a series of coruscating orange streams of nadion particles lance out at the attack ship. Doesn't do too much damage but we get their attention. A purple polaron beam impacts against our shield in return to even less effect. My home's defenses are far stronger than theirs. "Conn, port forty degrees, twenty degree down," I call. "Attack pattern Picard Lambda."

Streams of polaron bolts from the fighters hiss into nonexistence against the shields, followed by a slight jolt to the bridge from a torpedo. "Starboard shields at 98 percent and regaining," Tess reports. "Biri, can you get those fighters out of my face?"

"I'm on it! Tractor beam … locked!" On the tac display one of the fighters to our starboard freezes in place as a focused beam of gravitons closes an inexorable grip upon it. "He's all yours, Tac!"

"Firing phasers." Our full broadside of eight Type 10 phasers crashes into the irritant and tears it in half in an eyeblink. "Splash one!" Tess crows.

"Two more behind us, sir," Wiggin calls, "and that attack ship is—torpedoes incoming! Locked and homing!"

"Tess," I order, "Forward Two to point defense mode! Reinforce forward shields!"

"Point defense running!" she confirms. "Aft banks locked on contact F2 and firing!" The forward beam easily picks off two of the incoming torpedoes and the third impacts harmlessly on the shields. Meanwhile the aft phasers lance out at fighter number two. One misses but two and three crash straight into its sidewall, which collapses. "Aft launcher locked! Firing!" A single quantum torpedo shrieks out of the aft torpedo tube. Seconds later its proximity fuse detonates, and a multi-megaton burst of plasma and charged particles incinerates the hapless fighter.

"Contacts F1 and JAS1 still active! F1 coming around!" Its symbol on the hologram rockets past us to port and below the saucer, firing as it goes. It lets what's probably its full complement of torpedoes go much too close for us to intercept and they smash full force into our port sidewall. "Shields holding, 78 percent!"

"Return the favor, Tess. Forward beams." Six coruscating orange lances from the saucer reach out and touch the fighter. Two direct hits, four glancing caresses. The fighter's warp core is punctured and it detonates in a blinding flash.

"JAS1 is turning," Chief Wiggin reports, calmly. "Christ, they're moving to ram us, aiming for Main Engineering!" I flash on a horror story from before the Dominion War, when this scenario played out over the planet known as "Paradise" in the Gamma Quadrant and cost us the original USS _Odyssey_.

Not today. Not here. "Tess, drop aft shields and stop engines," I order.

"What?"

"You heard me. Drop aft shields, stop engines, and put everything on the nav deflector."

"Oh, I see where you're going with this," she says with almost sadistic glee on her face. "Ops, nav deflector to maximum power. Repeat, maximum possible power."

"Nav deflector powered," Gaarra's voice comes through the intercom.

The Jems come streaking in and … let's say that while combat shields are bad at stopping kinetic impactors, seeing as how nobody on this side of the galaxy uses them, it's precisely what the nav deflector is designed for. They slam into the barrier at a sharp angle and bounce off, the display showing their starboard nacelle has sheared right off. Their shields are down, their weapons are wrecked, and with only one engine they start to go into a flat spin. "Conn, come about, one-four-seven." I hail them again as the _Bajor_ yaws to starboard. "Jem'Hadar vessel, you're defenseless. Surrender now and we'll beam you off your ship."

The response is something I've been told is extremely rude in the Dominion trade language. Their spin begins to slow as they start firing their remaining thrusters in sequence. I roll my eyes, even though I was pretty much expecting this; Jems rarely surrender. "Tess, do me a favor and put them out of their misery."

"With pleasure. Firing as she bears." She hammers her key and the saucer's ventral phaser array lances out once more and transects the ship's torpedo magazine. The secondary explosion disintegrates the forward half of the ship and sends the stern careening off down Malon II's gravity well.

"Damage report?" I say.

"Other than some klutz in astrometrics who fell over and hit his shoulder on a table when that Jem ran into us, no casualties," Biri reports. "No damage either; shields are coming back to full."

"Well done, everyone!" I say in a satisfied tone. I hit the intercom. "Secure ship from battle stations and return to previous alert level." The combat holodisplay disappears and I release the key. "Comms, hail the _Shargrash_ for me."

"Channel open," Esplin says, breathing heavily.

I look at her, then back at the viewscreen where Captain S'bek has appeared. I'll have to talk to her in a bit. "SS _Shargrash_, you okay over there?"

S'bek nods. "Never in my life did I ever imagine I would be grateful to the Federation Starfleet. I am in your debt, Captain Kanril."

"Just doing my job. Need any help getting your ship fixed?"

"Thank you for the offer but, surprisingly enough, we'll be all right. We managed to save the essential systems and we can make it to the Ragesh Mining repair station at Malon IV on one impulse engine. I owe your crew a round of drinks."

"You're welcome. Stay out of trouble, okay?"

"I'll try. Once again, thank you." He vanishes from the screen. Fifteen kilometers ahead, the Gorn freighter comes about and goes to warp.

"Ensign Esplin, can I speak to you for a moment?"

The Saurian stands and walks over, standing at attention. I can see her lips quivering a bit but she stays more or less expressionless. "At ease," I tell her. "This your first time in a real fight?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How are you feeling?"

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, I'm serious."

"During the fight, I was scared."

"And now?"

"Numb, ma'am. How am I supposed to feel? I just killed people."

"No, you didn't; I did," Tess replies from my right, "but that's not important right now. You're feeling about what the skipper and me expected. Right, ma'am?"

I nod, stand, and put my hand on Esplin's shoulder. "You'll be fine. I'm not going to rely on cliché here: the first battle isn't the hardest, it's just the first. And frankly, as pathetic as that one was, I guarantee the next will be harder. You do your job and work with your crewmates and you get through. The rest is up to the Prophets."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And if you need to talk to someone," Biri adds, "Counselor Shree's office is always open.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Carry on, Ensign."

She walks back over to her station, but it chimes as she sits down. "Now what?" she wonders aloud. She checks the readout and turns back to me. "Ma'am, Admiral Marconi is on subspace for you."

I stand and straighten my jacket. "Onscreen."

Marconi's in a worse mood than he was when I met him, glaring into the camera, his jaw tight. "Captain, I'm pulling you off your route. You are to proceed to the Dreon System immediately at maximum military power."

"Why? What's going on?"

"I have no earthly idea. DS9 picked up a garbled subspace message thirty seconds ago from the Bajoran colony on Dreon VII. The only word we could make out was 'help' and it cut off after ten seconds." He pauses, then continues. "I'm also dispatching the _Jadzia Dax_ and the _Amaterasu_ but you'll be there a good fifteen minutes ahead of either of them. Your orders are to render aid as necessary and report in. Find out what's going on but don't risk your ship needlessly, understand?"

"I never do, sir."

"Good, get moving."

"Conn, set course for the Dreon System." I hit the intercom key. "Bridge to Engineering, give me everything you can get out of the warp drive."

"I'm on it, Skipper," comes the voice of my chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Bynam Ehrob. "I can get you warp 9.98 for forty minutes but I'll have to take the core offline to cool off after that."

"Nav, that enough?"

"Barely, Skipper," Lt. Ivanovich replies. "We'll reach the planet but we won't be able to warp back out."

"Let's hope we don't need to. Conn, warp 9.98."

"Warp 9.98, aye," JG Park replies. "ETA thirty-eight minutes, twelve seconds."

"Tess, yellow alert, and take us back to battle stations at T minus three minutes. JG Park, punch it."

"We're on our way!" He punches the command into his console and the ship accelerates past lightspeed, gunning for the warp ten barrier.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Counselor Shree is a reference to a Foundry mission by another author, Kirkfat's "Relics".

I'm depicting the _Galaxy_-class starship more in line with its on-screen depiction, albeit having replaced the photon torpedoes with quantums. Obviously the STO _Galaxy_ doesn't mount eleven phaser strips (counting the one atop the stardrive that's blocked with the saucer docked), nor should it, though I still support a GCS revamp in the game.


	6. Asymptotic to Death

**Chapter 6: Asymptotic to Death**

Warp speeds are a little on the strange side. Cochrane's Fourth Law, at least following the 2312 speed scale recalibration, dictates that up to warp nine, your speed is equal to the speed of light times your warp factor to the ten-thirds power. This puts travel speeds for the average journey at a Starfleet vessel's usual cruising speed of warp seven at a little less than 1.8 light-years per day.

Above warp nine, however, the game changes. Here the graph becomes a vertical asymptote, approaching infinite velocity as you close on warp ten. Actually reaching warp ten is impossible, of course. Even transwarp conduits and the quantum slipstream drives they've got on some of the newer ships in our arsenal only add digits after warp nine's decimal point. And if there's one commonality between a warp drive and hoofing it on foot, it's that the faster you want to go, the more energy you consume, and the greater the strain on your engines. Push them too far, and Bad Things happen.

It's for this reason that when Bynam calls the bridge at T minus two minutes, he's worried. "Skipper, are we there yet? Because we're past redline on the warp core. The ship can't take this much longer."

Taking the jumja stick out of my mouth, I reply, "We're nearly there. Hundred seconds out."

"Good, because I'm going to have to take the whole system offline for at least four hours afterwards."

"Effects on a combat mission?"

"Without the warp core? Assuming this _is_ a combat mission, I can get you 90 percent power if we go to 110 on the fusion reactors and kick in the auxiliary generators."

"Tess?"

"90 percent just sets us back to the level of an '80s vintage _Galaxy_, Skipper. That should still be more than enough to outclass almost anything short of a cube."

I shudder at the thought. After Vega Colony and their subsequent raids all over the Alpha Quadrant I've seen enough of the damned boltheads to last a lifetime, and if it _is_ the Borg there's nothing we can do. Not since they started sending dozens of cubes at a time, under escort no less, instead of just a lone cube. "Start the emergency power systems, Bynam."

"I'm on it. Engineer out."

"Master Chief, we picking up anything?"

"Subspace is a mess, Skipper," Wiggin reports. "Too much interference; I can't see a thing."

"Source?"

"Couldn't tell you for sure, but my gut says somebody's got some serious jamming."

Electronic warfare. That would explain the distress signal being garbled. Who is it, though? Pirates? KDF? Worse?

Whatever it is, it's probably good that we had time to get everyone into vac-suits this time.

"Skipper," JG Park, "coming out of warp in five, four, three, two, one."

The stars redshift and the _Bajor_ rapidly brakes to 0.02_c_ as it approaches Dreon VII. "Master Chief," I say, "run a scan of the area."

"Hold on," Wiggin responds, "I've got something on passive sensors. What are you?" he whispers into his console as we close on the planet. Then, "Gotcha. Captain, I'm reading impulse engines, probably Orion based on the emissions profile. Three corvettes and a flight of interceptors, dead ahead. Range, two thousand klicks and closing fast."

Tess taps a command and the tactical hologram flickers back into existence. "Comms," I order, "burst message to DS9. Begin transmission. 'Have engaged Orion Syndicate ships over Dreon VII.' End transmission."

"Sorry, ma'am," Esplin says in a panicky tone, "they're jamming every subspace radio frequency there is!"

"Steady there, Ensign, we're not in trouble yet. Conn, straight at 'em."

"Straight at 'em, Skipper," Park confirms.

"I have a lock," Tess coolly reports. "Firing forward phasers." Six coherent streams of nadions erupt from the saucer at the oncoming ships. Two swat a fighter out of existence, the others slam into the oncoming corvettes. Tess sets the battery into rapid fire, but the greenskins are flying so close together they're overlapping each others' shields, reinforcing each other. I'm briefly impressed by their ship handling: not many can safely handle ships that close together. The greenskins return fire, charged particles lancing from their disruptor banks and dissipating against our forward shields. "Shields holding, 90 percent."

"Come on, you idiots, flinch_. Flinch."_ If they don't break off soon they'll hit us. At two klicks they finally realize I'm not breaking off and scatter to all sides, fanning out over and around the _Bajor's_ saucer. "Biri, can you get a tractor lock on one of the corvettes?"

"This jamming isn't making things easy! I'm working on it, trying to compensate for the flux patterns!"

"Torpedoes launched," Wiggin states. "Fighters moving to hit us from behind."

"Aft One to point defense," Tess reacts.

The lights dim and the bridge jolts under a barrage of disruptor fire and torpedoes from the interceptors. "Damage report!" I order.

"Aft shields at 80 percent, starboard at 67," Tess replies. "Minor damage to EPS systems in starboard nacelle. Damage Control is responding."

"Conn, come right two-three-zero, forty up. Bridge to Engineering, dump warp plasma from the nacelles. Maybe we can keep them off our backs."

"Wasn't using it anyway, Skipper," Bynam replies through the intercom. "Venting plasma."

A greenish cloud of ionized gas streams aft from the nacelle vents, catching four of the remaining five fighters on an attack run. One explodes outright, one is immobilized, the rest damaged. "Aft phasers locked," Tess says, making an adjustment on her console. "Firing." The stern battery spits lances of bright orange particles into the fighter swarm. One pierces the leader's shields amidships and hits something important enough for a secondary explosion to rip the ship to pieces. Another two slam into reinforced shields that buckle enough under the stress for a third to penetrate and punch into the crew compartment; the interceptor goes careening onto a ballistic course, out of the fight.

"Contact C2 coming about," Wiggin calls. "Reading weapons locks. Ma'am, they've dropped their aft shields!" Far strengthened disruptor fire smashes into our port sidewall, followed closely by a spread of photon torpedoes. The shields buckle and a single torpedo penetrates and strikes a glancing blow 200 meters off the bridge. A console explodes to my right, sending an ops noncom flying from his chair.

"Medical team to the bridge!" I order. "Damage report!"

An engineering senior chief responds, "Hull breach, Holodeck Five and Compartment Ten-Sierra! Casualties in Planetary Sciences! Damage control and medical responding!"

"Defensive pattern Kirk Alpha! Roll ship!"

Park starts the ship into a barrel roll and begins bringing the saucer to bear as Tess returns fire against the corvette. "Torpedoes locked. Launching a spread, dispersal pattern foxtrot." Five quantum torpedoes erupt from the forward launcher and home in as our phaser strips spit fire at the corvette. Two missiles miss completely and careen off into space. One more impacts the shields at the same time as four beams strike home. The barrier collapses and the last two torpedoes collide head-on with the corvette and its entire front half shatters. "Won't be seeing him again, Skipper!"

"Good shooting," I agree. "What about the others?" Disruptor beams strike the aft shields. "Never mind. Tess?"

Biri responds instead. "I've got a lock! Aft tractor beam coming up!" Contact C3 isn't frozen but Biri is able to redirect its course straight into our dissipating plasma cloud which rapidly eats away at its shields. It also renders it a perfect target for a full broadside, which Tess is only too happy to give. Their aft shields overload almost instantly, setting off a secondary explosion that rips a gash in the hull above the port nacelle. A second broadside, off-axis as the _Bajor_ comes about to bring the forward launcher to bear, hits all over the unprotected hull, including against the port maneuvering fin, which snaps loose and smashes into the vessel amidships.

"Forward launcher locked and firing!" Tess crows. Another torpedo races out the tube and detonates. "Direct hit!" The greenskins' warp core explodes and the ship vanishes in a single eye-searing flash.

More disruptor fire to our stern from contact C1. _"__Fektal thras merka,"_ Tess grinds out in Andorian, glaring at her console as if it just insulted her mother. "She's playing it safe, staying above the launcher's targeting arc, and we're not doing enough damage with the aft phasers. Conn, you've got to give me an Ivan."

"Always wanted to try one," Park replies. He sounds cheerful but I can hear a tinge of concern in his voice. "Accelerating to full impulse to get some distance on him." The distance opens a bit but the corvette stays with us and that last interceptor comes in low to port on another attack run. The ventral phaser strip fires and rakes the fighter stem to stern, ripping off a wing and killing an engine. It goes into a flat spin and quickly disintegrates. "Crazy Ivan in three, two, one, firing thrusters!"

As much as you'd like it to sometimes, a 4.5 megaton cruiser doesn't turn on a dime. Instead, blue-hot fire erupts from the port bow and starboard side of the saucer and the _Bajor_ slews to port as it rotates, the inertial dampers allowing just enough of the g-forces through to be able to feel it. As the ship passes through 100 degrees, Tess announces, "I have a shot!"

"Emergency power to phasers!" I order. "Target the bridge!"

"Firing!" Five searing streams of particles lance out and slam into the greenskins' shields. "They're at twenty percent!"

"Hit 'em again! Park, tilt us!"

"Pitching ship!" Park shouts.

Still flying backwards the _Bajor_ rears up like a stallion, bringing the forward launcher and ventral gun to bear. "Torpedoes locked! Firing everything!" Now all six banks fire and the tube spits ordnance. The corvette's shields shatter under the barrage and five quantum torpedoes strike home. The first puts a crater where the bridge used to be. The second dives into the breach and detonates somewhere inside the ship. The third apparently strikes debris and blows prematurely. The fourth goes straight in and blows a hole out the other side. The fifth overpenetrates, detonating on the far side of the ship, but the damage is already done. Almost as an afterthought the warp core blows four seconds later, reducing the ship to a glowing cloud.

I let out a breath I never realized I was holding. "Good work, people."

Chief Wiggin spoils my mood. "We're not out of this yet. Still reading massive subspace interfer—Impulse engine! Heavy capital, looks like a _Slavemaster_-class battleship in low orbit, ten thousand kilometers astern!"

"Probably the ship pumping out the ECM. Park, come about and take us after them. Tess, casualties from the last fight?"

Tess grimly replies, "Doctor Wirrpanda reports four dead, twenty-seven wounded from the hit to deck ten. Two critical, ten serious, fifteen minor. Our shields are recharging."

Out of the corner of my eye I see the turbolift door slide open and two medics rush in to begin tending to the injured petty officer. "He okay?" I ask.

"He'll be fine, but we have to get him to sickbay. Three, two, one, lift!" They hoist him onto the stretcher and rush back out.

"Can we handle a _Slavemaster_-class like this?" I ask Tess.

"No rougher than taking on three corvettes simultaneously, Skipper."

The _Bajor_ makes its way down the gravity well towards the battleship, which comes to port to meet us. We're still upside down relative to them as Tess opens fire. Coruscating orange lances reach out for the battleship, which returns fire. "I'm dropping all shields except the facing side and dumping the power onto that shield," Tess says as the bridge shudders under their disruptor fire. I nod my agreement as we close. Orange and green beams crisscross between us. "Shields holding, 92 percent. Ditto the Orions."

"We need to tip the odds somehow. Tess, put our phasers into random remodulation. Maybe we'll hit the frequency they're using for their shields. Meanwhile pull power from engines and dump to phasers."

"Phasers remodulating," she confirms.

Now instead of a solid orange the blasts from the forward batteries are rimmed in all colors of the rainbow. The battleship fires a spread of photon torpedoes. Tess swats two, three miss, but the rest collide with the shields and the bridge shakes _hard_. "Damage report!"

"Forward shields down to 70 percent, and I've got power fluctuations in Phaser Three." She hits a key and says, "Damage control to Gunnery Three," into her console mic.

I look back to the tac hologram. Disruptor fire and phasers continue to race back and forth as the distance closes, but as we close head-on I can tell these greenskins are braver than the last. "Conn, they're not breaking off. Come port thirty so we don't get run over." Park bangs out a command and the _Bajor_ swings clear of their heading with only hundreds of meters to spare.

"Switching to broadside and re-angling shield!" Tess says. Eight beams crash into the Orions' facing flank. One green-tinged lance goes straight through and strikes something on the hull. A massive secondary explosion rips the battleship's sidepod off, laying a dozen decks open to space. Air, debris, and bodies rush out of the breach. Tess gives an exultant whoop that leaves my ears ringing. "They felt that one!"

I press a palm to my ear. "A little quieter next time, Tess."

"Sorry, ma'am," she says, not sounding sorry at all. She's in her element, and the joy of battle is in her blue Andorian veins as much as with any Klingon. I shake my head and divert more power to the phasers.

We race past the battleship, firing continuously. "Reading near-complete power loss to their facing shields!" Wiggin reports.

Tess responds, "Aft launcher locked. Launching full spread!"

Five torpedoes shriek clear of the aft tube. One is caught immediately by their ECM, its guidance crashes, and it goes straight off into deep space. The second and third are quickly targeted and swatted out of space by disruptor fire. One more impacts against their remaining sliver of shields. One gets through, hitting like the fist of an angry god against their unprotected hull. One of their impulse engines fails. A secondary explosion, probably a power system overloading, rips a gash in the dorsal hull. "Their shields are collapsing!"

"Tess, hold fire for a moment," I order. "Comms, broadcast on all frequencies." Esplin waves me on. "Orion vessel, your shields are dead, you've got holes in your hull, and there's more quantum torpedoes where the last ones came from. Surrender now and—" Fresh disruptor fire comes in from their aft mounts and they start to roll to present what's left of their shields. "Well, I guess that answers that question," I comment. "Help yourself, Tess."

She gives a toothy grin and resumes pummeling them with the aft phasers. "Launcher locked and loading." She pauses for a moment. "Firing."

Three more torpedoes race out of the tube. Tess has angled them onto a parabolic course, sending them up and over and straight into the still-failed shields. A staccato series of brilliant white flashes, silent in the vacuum, and the battleship's narrow neck shatters. The drive section rushes forward, spinning out of control, and smashes into the bow at a right angle, tearing straight through. The remaining engine goes out but somehow someone must be alive in their engineering section because Wiggin is telling me they've shut down the warp core. "Wiggin, scan for lifeforms."

"Reading four in the engineering section, two a couple decks up."

"Beam them directly to the brig and get medical teams there. What about the planet?"

He shakes his head. "This isn't over, Skipper. Reading small arms fire coming from a small village in a mountain region on the southern hemisphere nightside. Looks like they got some ground platoons off before we got here."

"We'll have to beam down and take them out. Tess, Biri, you're with me. Park, you have the bridge. Esplin, apprise DS9 of our situation and send a general alert to Starfleet Command." I hit the intercom. "Dul'krah, I need four security officers to Armory Two for an away team." The three of us run for the turbolift. "Armory Two."

In the armory I peel off my vac-suit and pull on the body glove that goes on under my battle armor. Robot arms assist with locking the greaves, cuirass, pauldrons, gauntlets, boots, other sections I'm not sure of the names of, securely into their places. The power assistance comes online and I flex my arms and hands, hearing the quiet whir of the servos.

I walk forward to the weapons locker and withdraw a belt of photon grenades. A Type 2 phaser pistol. A Type 4 rifle. A G23 grenade launcher. I turn around to check on the rest of the team. As usual Tess looks even more buxom and curvy than she does in uniform, given the tight fit of the body glove and armorweave plates. But what attracts my attention more is her weapon, which is almost as big as she is. "Tess, what the _phekk_ is that?"

"Phased polaron minigun," she says matter-of-factly.

"Don't remember requisitioning that."

"Bought it from a Ferengi trader while we were at DS9. He supposedly got it from the Dosi."

"You really think we'll need that SAW?"

"Says the woman carrying a grenade launcher," Biri points out, making an adjustment to her Type 4S.

Four members of our security contingent arrive and begin suiting up. I look around to identify them. Lieutenant K'lak, the mustachioed Klingon who was nearly in that bar fight back at DS9. Ensign Kate McMillan, a sweet, friendly redhead who's up for promotion in a couple weeks. Senior Chief Athezra Darrod, a Bajoran from the capital who came aboard at our last port. Crewman Cdebaat, a rough, gruff Tellarite.

My combadge chirps. "CMO to Captain," comes the tenor voice of Doctor Warragul Wirrpanda.

I slap the badge. "Go ahead, Doc."

"My team's got the prisoners from the brig. One of them was impaled by a spar before you beamed him out and he flatlined before we got to him. A second is missing a leg. The others are mostly okay."

"I care more about the casualties from Deck Ten, Doc."

"I've still got Specialist Sebod still on the table—no, hold the clamp _there_, damn it!—on the table with a sucking chest wound but the rest are stable, ma'am."

"Keep at it but be ready, we may have more work for you in a few minutes."

"Aye, aye. CMO out."

The transporter room is located right across the corridor from the armory. "Tell me more about the target," I say to the group as we walk in.

Ens. McMillan speaks up. "Village by the name of Tholis, population of less than 750 people, and it's in a mountain range a good hour by aircar from anywhere bigger."

"750 people? What could they possibly want with something that small?"

McMillan shrugs. K'lak adjusts the front sight on his sniper rifle and replies, "Orions may be best known for selling their own women but they also trade in non-Orions." He looks disgusted. "Vile business. Not even the Ferengi will stoop that low."

I grit my teeth as I take my place on the transporter pad. "I hate greenskins. Chief Bandicek, energize."

The Benzite at the transporter station taps her console and I briefly feel an electric tingle, like the air right before a thunderstorm. Then I feel nothing.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Though I admit to making up the name "Cochrane's Fourth Law", the warp speed details given at the start of the chapter are right out of the _Star Trek: The Next Generation Technical Manual_. For the purposes of this fic, the tech books are a higher source than either _Star Trek Online_ or the shows, the latter of which have been known to contradict themselves on this kind of thing within the same episode (_Star Trek: First Contact_ couldn't even keep the number of decks on the _Enterprise_-E straight).


End file.
